


Hutch is Amish AU

by hutchynstarsk



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: AU, Amish, Gen, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:19:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3643257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Amish youth finds temptation and solace in music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hutch is Amish AU

**Author's Note:**

> I always thought that I would write more of this someday, but it is just a short piece, a little slice-of-life story about an Amish boy who is fascinated by music, and the boy named Starsky that he meets. Just one last little AU. With thanks to Barancoire for the encouragement and help with Hutch's Amish last name. :-) -Allie

 

**Hutch Is Amish AU**

**by Allie**

 

When he was flustered, Hutch didn't feel proficient in either English or the German dialect spoken in the Amish community where he lived. Two languages, and he felt clumsy as a plow horse in both.

“Danke,” said Hutch quietly, accepting the crate of carrots he'd started to drop. For a moment he looked into the very blue eyes of a boy his own age with dark hair cropped short, and a laughing look on his face. He was Englisch, of course. Those clothes he worse—the blue jeans and tight red shirt and coat made of leather. You would never see an Amish boy wearing such clothes, unless he was on his rumspringa. Perhaps even then.

Then he saw something that made his mouth grow dry with longing. “You are the band, yes?” He pointed awkwardly to the sheet music folded and stuffed in the boy's leather pocket. Hutch couldn't read that music writing. But he knew what it was.

The boy's hand travelled down to touch the paper. “Yeah.” He grinned. “I'm a drummer!” He looked quite proud of himself.

“And I am the boy who carries in groceries to deliver to the hotel,” said Hutch, his mouth twisting into a wry smile to cover the intense feeling of  
longing and even jealousy for something he might never have. Something made him not want to waste this opportunity. “When will you play? I would like to hear.”

The boy looked surprised. “You listen to music? I thought the Amish weren't allowed to.”

Hutch flushed. “We—aren't supposed to. But I—” How could he explain, much less to a stranger, something he could barely understand himself—how much, how deeply songs stirred inside his soul and called to him. How he felt like he was cutting off a part of himself if he could not have more. Sometimes, the hymns sung on Sunday or in the barn simply weren't enough for him. He'd caught snatches of Englisch music sometimes, and it burned in his soul, tempted him in a way nothing else did. He needed to know more, like a burning in his blood. As much as he loved the peace-filled songs of his religious background, sometimes he wanted more: songs that made your feet want to move, that expressed feelings he couldn't quite name. There must be so many kinds of music in the world. The songs he knew simply weren't enough for him. They hadn't been even when he was younger, but it had grown worse recently, with a restless longing he could no longer afford.

He didn't know how to handle it. But he knew if he didn't have more and different kinds of music he might burst. Or die. Or burst and then die.

The boy was looking at him closely, as though he understood more than Hutch could say. He smiled with something like sympathy. “My uncle doesn't like me listening to music in the house either.” A hand reached out and laid on his arm in a surprisingly reassuring gesture. “We start at six o'clock. You come round the back and I'll let you in where nobody can see you.”

Then he turned away quickly and took off at a jog. Hutch watched enviously as he ran across the parking lot, holding up a hand to wave to other boys his age, boys growing scraggly hair or beards, long-legged and awkward and rangy or pimply, dressed oddly to Hutch's eyes but so  
greatly to be envied for the musical magic they carried in the instrument cases by their sides.

The group of boys—four of them—headed into the hotel, chatting amongst themselves. Hutch sighed, and went back to unloading the hotel's grocery items from the back of his father's buggy.

Some days he loved being Amish, the simple pleasures of the life he'd always known on the farm, and some days it chafed on him, the restrictions that held him back from discovering all the different kinds of music in the world, for instance.

He finished more quickly than he'd started, concerned his father might think he was too slow. Father had entrusted Hutch with the task today because he had to see his mother (Hutch's grandmother) who was not well. He'd ridden on horseback so the carriage could be used for delivering the weekly groceries to the hotel.

Now Hutch would not need to come back here for a week. Except that he did need to. He needed to hear that music—whatever it might be. He felt sometimes that he would sell his soul for a good tune. He turned his mind ashamed away from that thought. Your soul was more important than music. How could he even think such a thing? But surely, God would not want you to long all your life for something that might not be wrong, that might simply be something older people didn't understand. The elders, his father….

Hutch swallowed hard, gave the horse an absent pat and climbed into the carriage again. He knew he would do whatever it took to hear the music tonight.

#

He finished his chores early and headed out to walk to the hotel without telling his father or mother. His youngest sister saw which way he went but he didn't turn back. She might or might not tell on him. Whatever happened, it was worth it to hear the music.

He knocked at the back door—an entrance he knew well from doing deliveries and taking back empty crates. He stood there nervously, feeling out of place and awkward here without work to do, in the Englisch world, in his black clothing and hat. He wondered if he had made a mistake.

The boy opened the door. “Hey.” His mouth spread in a smile. “I wondered if you'd come. Get in here.” He motioned for Hutch to enter, jerking his head a little. He wore a suit now, black and with a white shirt under it, and a thin black tie. The other boys were dressed the same. Hutch heard the stirrings of strings on a guitar, the flutterings of some kind of flute.

“Hey. What's he doing in here?” The boy with the goatee looked up and frowned, lowering his flute.

“He's a friend, just wants to listen. Don't worry, he won't steal our songs.” The dark-haired boy grinned.

Looking at him grin, Hutch didn't know how anyone could disbelieve him, ever.

He touched the boy's sleeve as he started to turn away. Seeing him wearing mostly black, Hutch felt more comfortable and less tongue-tied than he had earlier. It felt familiar, even if the shape of the clothes was different and there were buttons and fancy collars on the musician's clothes.

“What ist your name?” he asked. “I should know it, if you mean to call me friend.” He smiled.

The boy's face obliged by breaking out into a big grin. “Ha! I'm David Starsky. Pleased to meet you.”

David. The name felt familiar to him. A Bible name. A good name.

“I am Caleb Hochstetler,” said Hutch. “But I am called Hutch. It is a nickname,” he added, uncertain how to explain.

But David simply nodded. “I'm called Starsky. Pleased to meetcha. Take a seat anywhere, and listen. We're great.” With a confident wink at Hutch, he turned and took his place at the drums. And shortly, the music began….

For the next hour, Hutch sat mesmerized on an upturned crate, clasping his knees or just sitting open-mouthed, or grinning so hard he could barely feel his face anymore. He felt so… alive. Happy. So very much like himself.

The music poured over him from the stage. It went out into the hotel, where some people danced, others ate and drank and ignored the music. It was background to them, even when the boys poured their souls onto the stage, performed the best anyone could ever possibly perform. To Hutch, it was his whole new world, wrapped up in that hour, on that stage. He never wanted to leave.

When they played their last song, bowed, and began to pack up their music to a couple of claps and one whistle, Hutch wanted to cry. He felt shy of Starsky again, that boy who had turned magical on stage, helping to make that wonderful music and looking so confident as they did so.

Starsky approached him, grinning. He was sweaty from the hot lights and hard work of his music. “Like it?” he asked.

Hutch nodded. He swallowed hard. “It was—perfect.” He clasped his hands together in front of him in almost a gesture of pleading. “May I come and hear you again, please?”

“Of course. Perfect, huh? Hah. And Jim said that last song needed more work.”

“I loved it all,” said Hutch truthfully. And something made him hesitate and then ask, “Can I—can I sing it?”

“Huh?” Starsky looked confused. “You're a singer? Are you in a band?”

“I mean—in the barn, on my own.” He flushed a little. “Your—friend, said  
I must not steal it,” he reminded.

Starsky's face cleared. “Oh, that's all right. He meant you're not allowed to give it to another band to play and compete with us. You can sing it all you want, Hutch.” His friendly hand clapped on Hutch's back, and his smile was warm and genuine. “Thanks for the compliment.”

“I mean it. These are… the most wonderful sounds I have ever heard.”

Starsky laughed, ducking his head a little. “You must have rock ‘n roll in your blood.”

“Ist that what it's called?” His speech thickened in concern. Rock'n'roll—devil's music. He'd heard people talk of it scornfully. He had not known that was what he loved. He felt conflicted suddenly, frightened.

Starsky nodded. “Some of it. We play some dance songs for the couples, too. And some classics for the older people. You gotta be flexible playing in hotels. But next week we have a really good gig.”

“You won't be here again?” Hutch's face fell.

Starsky laughed. “Yeah, Hutch, we'll be here! Every day for the next month. It's a good, steady paying job and that's hard to find for a band just starting out. The other stuff is tips only, but has a better audience, people into the music scene, might even get noticed, you know?” He gave Hutch's arm a light swat. “You come again any time, okay? I like having an appreciative audience.”

“Danke,” said Hutch. “I mean—thank you. I appreciate…” He lowered his eyes, overwhelmed by this generosity. Here he was again, losing control of his words, clumsy as he could be with his feet at times.

“Nothing to be thanking me about. Just come again and cheer for us, okay? You're good luck.”

“Allrecht,” said Hutch. “I—I must go. Gud nacht, David Starsky.”

He turned to go, and heard a half a laugh behind him. “Yeah, you too, Hutch. Gud nacht.”

#

Hutch sang, in the barn. At first his singing was low, quiet. But as he grew more confident that he was truly alone—truly by himself, his father busy for the day with trading, his sister watching kinder for a neighbor and his mother baking in the kitchen—Hutch let the words pour out of his heart in song.

He did not remember every word of the songs from last night—he had been too transported by the music to catch all the words—but the ones he did not remember he filled in with words from his heart, or silly words, nonsense, anything, anything so the music and rhythm kept going.

He forked hay for the horses and the cows, and sang and sang.

He had not got in trouble last night when he returned home. The walk had taken long enough that his flushed, glowing countenance had dimmed somewhat, but not completely.

His sister must not have told anyone where he went, because his parents did not scold him. His story of visiting a friend must've been believed. At any rate, here he was the next day, still riding high from the joy of all that beautiful music that was now his. He'd captured it and held it close all night long, hugging the music to his heart. It seemed to have followed him down into sleep. He'd woken with the first sound of the rooster and went out to the barn for chores.

He threw himself into the farm work that day, and the woodworking. He and his father made furniture to sell. Since harvest was over, they had more time, and it was important to have enough pieces to sell near Christmas, when the Englisch bought lots of things for themselves and each other.

Christmas was a solemn occasion for the Amish. Hutch could not imagine  
it being a time of raucous celebration or buying. The Englisch world was very strange and far-removed from the Plain people's lives. Even though it was often so very close by.

But today everything felt new and different for Hutch. He felt an enthusiasm for life, as if he could burst out shouting any moment. Singing in the barn as he worked on his evening chores did much to relieve that feeling. He hurried so he could go to hear the music again.

#

“You really like it, huh?” said David, looking amused and pleased and proud of himself. “Too bad you don't play an instrument. Maybe we could use you in the band.”

“I could never,” said Hutch, blinking and shocked at the idea.

“Your parents?” asked Starsky, looking sympathetic.

“Yah, my parents,” said Hutch, realizing he would have enjoyed the challenge if he hadn't worried about risking their disapproval. “But also, I would not know how to stand up in front of people this way. The Plain people are not to call attention to themselves.”

“Well, if you think about it, we're really calling attention to the music. We're letting people dance, enjoy themselves, or think of something pleasant while they eat. Most of the time, they're not paying any attention to us at all.”

Hutch did not know how that could be, when the musicians put themselves into the music and sometimes even danced around to it quite shamelessly on the stage, but he just nodded a little bit doubtfully, feeling a confused frown wrinkling his forehead.

“Well you already said you don't play, so I don't know why I'm asking you.” Starsky was frowning a little bit as he glanced back at his band mates.

Someone was raising his voice, in almost a shout. Another band member replied in kind, but sounding defensive and harried.

“If you can't play right, then don't play!” shot back the first young man, turning away. He walked past Hutch and Starsky, looking over his shoulder.

He was tall and had slicked-back blond hair. Not looking where he was going, he bumped into Hutch. “Watch it,” he snarled, fierce eyes glaring at Hutch for one startling moment. Then he was past and away.

“Maybe I do know why,” said Starsky in a low voice. “You look a lot like him, but you don't act like a jerk!”

Hutch stared at his shoes: originally black but now scuffed and soiled with dust. He would have to clean them when he got home.

He could never be like that boy. He was too Plain—too plain in every sense of the word. He would fall on his face or start stuttering on stage. But all the same, he felt so suddenly jealous—another bad emotion. That young man had everything. He had all this music, and these friends, and the opportunity to make people happy with his singing. But all he could do was scowl and shout and argue.

It didn't make sense of Hutch. Maybe rock'n'roll really was the Devil's music, if it could take people with so much to love and make them so angry.

He glanced at Starsky. But he's not like that. Maybe it's not the music at all…

Starsky was still staring worriedly after the young man. “Oh, shit,” he said quietly. “I think he's really going to do it this time.”

Hutch blinked at both his language and the worry in his voice. “Do it? Leave the band?” The angry musician's walk was certainly very decisive and ferocious.

Starsky nodded distractedly, his face drawn with worry. He started to leave, then moved back to Hutch's side. He gripped Hutch's arm, hard. “Listen, Hutch—come back tomorrow, please? I might need your help. I gotta go talk to him…” And he dashed away, hurrying after the angry musician.

Hutch wandered home, still in a daze from the beautiful music, and all his thoughts, raging around in his head. It was nearly time for his rumspringa, his time for sampling the World. Perhaps… Perhaps…

But what could a boy who didn't know anything of music except what he'd heard in the last few days really expect from his time among the Englisch? To become a musician, like David?

He snorted at his own foolishness. He was lucky to have the life he did; he knew that. Lucky to have a family that loved him, lots of good work to do and the strength to do it. He was lucky to have a peace-filled home and a community that cared about people and didn't believe in violence.

He was lucky in many ways: and yet the music called to him. It hurt. Needing it so much—and not knowing how to fill that longing. And knowing if he somehow learned how to, it would probably involve leaving his home, his family, and everything else in the world except for music that he held dear.

It was too high a price; both choices were.

He slept poorly that night, disturbed even in his dreams by the unformed, troubling choices he had to make. To turn his back on music… or to turn his back on his family and beliefs. At least for a little while. He didn't know if he could do either.

But all the same, he found himself going back that night, slipping away and walking as quickly as he could to the hotel, and waiting by the back door. Starsky flung it open just after he arrived, before he got up the courage to knock.

“Oh, good, you're here!” Some of the lines of worry on Starsky's face eased. “Get in here, quick.” He gestured for Hutch to join him.

Inside, Hutch surveyed the back of the stage. Only two other musicians set up today. They looked stressed and harried as David did. The angry one was missing.

Starsky pushed a suit like his own into Hutch's hands and gave him a worried, almost pleading blue-eyed look of appeal. “Change into these, okay, Hutch? I promise you don't have to sing, just get up on stage and hold the microphone and mime the words. You know—pretend to sing. We'll carry you. But we need four. Our contract… anyway, he left us in the lurch. We need four and you're my pal, right? Just please help me out. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. Please?”

Hutch stared at Starsky, then down at the clothes in his hands. He'd known in a vague way that he had to choose, but he hadn't expected it to be this quickly or this extreme. Choose, today? Now? Put on Englisch clothes and pretend to sing on stage? (Wasn't that like lying, pretending to sing but not really singing?)

“Hutch!” said Starsky. “Please do this for me?”

“I will,” Hutch found himself answering. He found out it hadn't been a decision after all: he'd already made it.

#

A short time later, wearing unfamiliar, scratchy clothes that nearly fit him, Hutch stood on the stage with the three musicians and faced the crowd. Starsky was right, they weren't paying much attention, but it was still terrifying.

At first he couldn't do anything, just stand there holding the microphone. Then he began to sway a little, and to pretend to sing. It felt like a lie, and he sort of knew the words to this song. But the second he opened his mouth, a sort of awkward sound came out, magnified round the room, so  
he shut up quickly.

The others played and sang their parts with determination. He could see on their faces that they were worried about their friend's disappearance, too. But they worked so hard and played so well, no one in the audience must know it.

Hutch tried to play his part. He was sweating fiercely in the bright lights and the open, exposed stage, harder than if he was working during harvest.

Something caught his eyes at the front of the room: a door opening, someone pointing up at the stage. He recognized—or thought he recognized—the angry musician. He was scowling. And he was pointing Hutch out to the hotel manager. The man looked up at him, and blinked.

No, no! He'll tell my father.

Shame washed over Hutch, bit at his ankles like a small dog.

He spent the rest of the time pretending to sing up on stage in an agony of suspense and nerves. He tried to catch Starsky's eyes, to signal to him that he couldn't keep doing this. But Starsky just kept giving him encouraging nods, motioning for him to continue. Finally Hutch gave up, and kept at it. What difference did it make anyway? Now that his parents were going to find out…

When the longest evening of his life ended, Hutch got off the stage to polite applause, keeping his head down. He felt drenched in sweat, and like a total imposter, a complete liar, inside this stranger's suit.

The blond singer—the actual singer—was waiting for them backstage.

His eyes looked angrier than a riled bull's. And then the shouting started.

Hutch wanted to disappear. Instead, he went and quietly changed into his own clothing. And then he surprised himself by doing something sensible. He went to find the hotel manager, and asked him not to tell his father.

The man stared at him like he'd never seen Hutch before, like he was trying to figure it out. "I guess you're on your, what do you call it, rumspringa."

"No," said Hutch quietly. "But I think I am going to be." He looked at the man to see if he had any more questions, but the manager just shook his head.

"It's your life, your family, your religion. I've got nothing in it. I always did think it was a little strange they didn't allow you kids more music!"

Hutch felt himself smiling in relief. He didn't want people to criticize his family, but he was glad the man seemed to understand. "Thank you, sir."

And he headed home, his heart lighter than it had been. He would tell his parents he was on his rumspringa. He would find a way to have music. He would learn the words for when he sang.

He was already out of the building and starting the walk home, when a familiar figure came pounding out after him. "Hutch! Wait!" called Starsky, breathless and a little frantic. He dashed up, catching hold of Hutch's arm and swinging around, stopping himself. "Hutch, Hutch!" he said, looking desperate and frightened. "Don't go yet! It's not your fault about the fight!"

And Hutch smiled at him. "I know. But I have to get home."

Starsky looked disappointed. "Oh. I thought maybe we could have some practice, and you could try singing for real."

"Why?" asked Hutch curiously. "Did your singer leave again?"

Starsky nodded. Two pink spots lit his cheeks. He looked down, and scratched at the top of his head. "I thought…you…I guess that was stupid, huh? It's just you said you love to sing. I thought we could practice singing for real, and you could help us out till…I don't know." He shrugged helplessly.

And Hutch wanted to grab him up in his arms and kiss him on the cheek. He was overwhelmed, flooded with joy. "I'd like that," he said quietly. "I would like to sing with you very much, David."

Starsky looked up, a hopeful smile lighting his face. "Really? Oh, that would be great." He caught Hutch's arms impulsively and smiled into his face. "I think you could do it. You just… I don't know, I think you love music almost more than anybody I've ever met, and it would be a shame not to do something about it."

Hutch nodded slowly, his mind flitting ahead. If he was on rumspringa… "Will I get a job with your band, if I can keep up the singing?"

Starsky nodded seriously. "We'll practice a bit first, and then you can sing for the band and they'll see how good you are." He smile that bright, almost shy, sweet smile again and gave a little nod. "I bet you are good, Hutch." He squeezed his arms harder, and they stared at one another for a moment.

Hutch was flushing. "Can I try now?" he asked softly. "Can I sing for you now?"

Starsky nodded without words, biting his lip a little. "Yeah. That'd be great."

Hutch closed his eyes, and began to sing.

 

>>>


End file.
